


we only come out at night

by cemetery_driven



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Kink, Bloodplay, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 16:34:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3141263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cemetery_driven/pseuds/cemetery_driven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gerard and Frank are just stupid vampire boyfriends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we only come out at night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deadfrnk (SuckMyKilljoy)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuckMyKilljoy/gifts).



> For deadfrnk on Tumblr, who was one of six winners of my fic giveaway/promo competition thing!

Gerard always has ink or paint or charcoal on his hands and the blacks and greys always smudge their way over Frank's knuckles, making his hands look like Gerard's goddamn ashtrays only slightly more beat-up.

 

Had Frank still possessed the shitty fucking immune system he once had, all the artsy shit Gerard rubs into his cuts and scrapes unintentionally would've given him fucking ink poisoning or something by now. Immune systems kind of kicked up a couple notches when one sort-of-died-but-didn't, though.

 

They're watching horror movies again, because that's all Gerard seems to own. It's fun, sometimes, all the time, when they stick on Dracula or Interview With The Vampire and point out plot holes and inaccuracies. When Twilight had come out it had been nothing but a goddamn laughing stock, and not just in their comfortable little basement bedroom, it had been a fucking shitstorm the dead-world over.

 

Tonight is Romero night again because Gerard can never get enough of Tom Savini's now-almost-comical looking blue-tinged zombies and amazing practical blood effects, and Frank's always down for a horde of brain-eaters. Zombies are easy, and Romero... Romero was around and doing his thing when Frank was still whatever he used to be, before time hit a big fuckin' pause on his eighteen-year-old body and the world kept moving around him. Martin had been his entire world for a whole year, the year between the pause and Gerard. Frank called it the pause, because he didn't want to call it anything else. The stuff that triggered the pause was bad enough, half of it locked somewhere in the recesses of his mind that only his subconscious can very, very rarely access, and calling it anything but _the pause_ always makes it sound and feel worse.

 

Gerard still has his Star Wars sheets from back then, too. He'd been a little older when the world kept moving and he didn't, stuck in twenty-one, but Star Wars sheets never aged either, apparently. He still kept them around, just for the couch, for the cooler nights where their body temperatures were dropping without as many wanderers out after dark because of the bitterness of the wind.

 

It fucking sucked in the middle of winter, and it always did, every year, but then spring rolled around and the streets started filtering out more and more people, inch by inch. Spring was apparently three weeks away, officially, and Frank only knew that because there was literally a news station counting it down.

 

Why they even had actual channels on their TV he'd never understand, because literally the only thing they ever did with the thing was watch horror movies or stupid cartoons, bar the very brief scanning of the news occasionally to ensure there'd been no found bodies, that they'd covered up alright after something particularly messy, to make sure they were, in fact, in the year 2005 and not 2015. Time passed different when one's body stopped acknowledging it existed.

 

Frank's knuckles are pretty fucked up but when Gerard presses his fingertips in little circles around the bones, the sharp-dull stinging pain is oddly comforting. Frank's still not sure if that's a dead-thing or just a 'we're very weird people' thing. He hasn't bothered to ask anyone else they know who's in the same sorta situation – mostly because he doesn't really know anybody who is, anymore. Just Gerard's brother, who lives over in Chicago now with two others he found by some twist of fate or whatever some ten years ago. They all still talk – Gerard makes him come to Jersey, bring his friends along, because Illinois isn't his cup of tea.

 

Really it's because Gerard hates leaving the fucking house, let alone the goddamn state, and Mikey understands that well enough.

 

Another head explodes on the screen, and Frank's hand twitches because Gerard's nail unintentionally scrapes along a fresh scratch. It doesn't hurt, not too much, but neither of them are exactly immune to the smell of an open cut, regardless of how frustratingly small it may be.

 

And Gerard has always been the kind of weirdo who had a rather questionable fascination with blood anyway, even before he paused, so when Gerard's smudgy fingertips tense, Frank is the opposite of surprised.

 

Frank doesn't even look away from the screen til Gerard's teeth brush softly at the fucked-up skin of his hands, and when he does, Gerard looks almost zoned out. Dazed. He always does, when he tastes it. His eyes go a little distant and his mind wanders and it's almost like in the movies when someone drops acid and sees stars, except not as full of Hollywood bullshit. He does the same thing sometimes when he has the first taste of a pumpkin spice latte in a whole year. Must be a taste thing. Maybe Frank does it too, he hasn't exactly watched himself drink. Except that one time in New Orleans when they drank chartreuse and fucked in a room full of mirrors and it was odd and strange because he could see every little detail reflected in the glass, but he was too fucked up to really take note of how dazed he looked at the time.

 

It used to be just a sex thing, in the beginning. When Frank would accidentally scrape his knuckles against a brick wall or rough pavement, Gerard would let out the lowest, most desperate whine. Not like Frank was really any different, because there'd been a couple of times when Gerard had given himself a papercut or nicked himself with his stupid craft-knife as he carved strange swirls into old bones they'd bought from an antique store in the middle of nowhere, and Frank had never had a whole lot of self-control. When it came to blood – especially Gerard's – it almost always ended up with sex.

 

They'd been together so long now, though, and it wasn't that the _spark had faded_ or the _flame was gone_ or whatever the fuck married dudes tell their engaged buddies to try and convince them that once they get married they'll be starved for sex. Gerard and Frank still fucked, and still fucked _often_ , it was just that if blood was involved, it usually took a little more than an accidental scratch over a still-healing scrape across the knuckles. The only times it didn't, really, was when they were literally _starved_ , and that hadn't happened in a very, very long time, and when it had, it was because the need for blood was so overwhelming that fucking anything red and metallic was like an adrenaline shot.

 

Now, it was different, and in a good way. Gerard's eyes are still trained on the screen, almost lost-looking, like he's so totally engrossed in the vivid reds and grayish-blues that he barely realizes that Frank's bleeding knuckle is in between his lips. It's comforting now, for both of them. Like a kid sucking his thumb, or teddy bears, or stupid Star Wars blankets that never aged.

 

Frank likes the wet-warm of Gerard's mouth, gently moving, the way his tongue moves in tiny flickers across his hand, almost feline. He doesn't even flinch anymore when Gerard's sharp little canines, insanely cute when he smiles and even better when they're brushing against the surface of Frank's skin, scrape just-barely across his knuckle. Gerard might be older, in theory, but at times like this, he looks like a lost little doll, and it's so perfect that Frank sometimes gets a surge of just an indescribable warmth in the pit of his stomach.

 

“Your lip's bleedin' too, y'know,” Gerard murmurs, his lips still brushing over Frank's skin as he speaks. It tickles, just a little, the way his mouth moves and vibrates against Frank's hand, but Gerard starts pressing small, chaste kisses to the little scratches and it doesn't matter anyway.

“Yeah,” Frank replies, and flicks his tongue out over his lip. It tastes tangy, like all blood does, like iron. It tastes like blood but it tastes like his own – a flavor that used to be special, back when the pause first happened, was like an _oh god I can taste these things in myself_ – his own special blend of nicotine and minor liver damage and the remains of a bad immune system still somehow present in it. 

 

Gerard's blood is much more exciting, more complex, but that's possibly because Gerard's blood isn't his own. Gerard's got the metallic tang, of every single other being on the planet, and he's got nicotine too, but there's a strong flavor of caffeine and the faintest, slightest, barely-there bitterness of prescriptions he hadn't swallowed for years. And there's this almost-sweetness, like just-ripe cherries or the just-sweet, slightly-cinnamon spice of something Frank can never identify the cause behind, because the flavors of Dr Pepper and Cherry Coke don't infuse into the bloodstream.

 

Gerard kisses Frank, just soft and innocent, despite the fact there's blood and people screaming terribly loudly on their TV, and Frank lets himself bite into Gerard's bottom lip, just barely, the tiniest pinprick from his sharpest teeth. It's not even sexual, not right now.

 

It's a comfort thing, and when Gerard makes a satisfied noise and lets Frank have one last lap at his bottom lip before he settles down into Frank's chest, Frank decides the bed is too far away. He's comfortable, and Gerard is too, apparently, with his hair all soft against Frank's collarbones, all splayed out like some kinda dark mermaid's. 

 

Frank nudges him up slightly, just to grab the Star Wars blanket from near their feet, and pulls it over them. He leaves it at Gerard's shoulders, lets him huddle down and wrap it in one hand and hold it tight around his neck like always, almost childlike. Gerard grabs Frank's messed-up hand again, pressing small kisses to every knuckle, before he gets himself as comfortable as possible, the still-barely-bleeding one gently in his mouth, and he's suckling on it softly.

 

“Love you, Frankie,” he murmurs, mouth still on Frank's skin. Frank runs a hand through his hair, it's messy and a little greasy but realistically neither of them are particularly hygienic in the middle of winter.

 

“Love you too, Gee-doll.”

 


End file.
